


now I'm gone

by Kalgalen



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-16 03:48:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19310011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalgalen/pseuds/Kalgalen
Summary: Ny-Ålesund is impossibly cold.That was to be expected, and they had packed in accordance with the forecast; what they had not expected, though - and maybe they should have had - was the snowstorm.(Jon gets trapped in the cold, and Martin comes out of isolation.)





	now I'm gone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [marinavermilion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marinavermilion/gifts).



> I asked for soft jm prompts on twitter and marina answered with "hypothermia" which was _not_ what i was expecting but boy if it wasn't fun to write

Ny-Ålesund is impossibly cold.

That was to be expected, and they had packed in accordance with the forecast; what they had not expected, though - and maybe they should have had - was the snowstorm. It had enveloped them as they were inspecting a possible ritual site, growing from a couple of isolated snowflakes to a raging white inferno in a matter of minutes. Basira had grabbed Jon’s wrist as soon as the visibility had started to get really poor, but a violent gust of wind and a treacherous snow pit had quickly separated them.

Jon had called for a long time. His voice, weak and splintered, had been mercilessly drowned out by the howling storm. He had decided to start walking, in the end, if only to keep warm - and for the feeling that he was doing _something,_ fighting whatever had mislaid him in an ocean of swirling snow.

After a while, the naturally dim daylight had dimmed further still, then died out; the wind had went down with it, and Jon had found himself trudging through a knee-high blanket of snow in the dark, with for only drive the one to walk straightforward until he reached some sort of civilization - if civilization there still was, in any case.

Because he had had no doubt of which powers were at play here; he could taste it in the invisible fog surrounding him, he could hear it in the way nothing could be heard except for the crunching of his steps and the huff of his exhales. He was lost in the dark - alone.

There was no way to tell for how long he'd wandered, each push forward harder than the previous one, needles of cold drilling into his lungs with every breath. He must have collapsed, at some point; he'd heard about the feeling of warmth coming with hypothermia, but he'd been far too dazed by then to register any kind of physical sensation.

* * *

He wakes up in a plain room with pale blue walls and closed curtains. It takes him a few minutes - and the sight of Basira struggling with the small electric kettle - to remember that this is the hotel room they share. The bed next to him has been stripped of its blanket, which has been added to his own. His whole body is painful, as if he'd fallen down a flight of stairs - which, given how spotty his memory is, is a very real possibility.

"Basira," he calls, and immediately starts coughing. Basira turns around, and for a moment he sees her face soften in relief - then it turns back into her now-typical closed-off expression.

"Jon," she says, and after a last annoyed poke at the kettle, she comes and sit on the edge of the bed. Her eyes are very attentive and focused, and Jon hates that they remind him immediately of Elias. "That was a close one," she tells him calmly, and ignores him when he gives a shaky laugh that devolves into more coughing. "Couple of minutes later, and I would have had to defrost you. Give me your arm."

Without thinking, Jon wearily extracts his right arm from under the nest of covers. Basira takes his wrist, putting two fingers over his pulse point and frowning to herself.

"Your diagnosis, doctor?" Jon can't help but ask - sardonically, of course. He's in no way _worried_ about the answer.

Basira shrugs, and change the subject. "I found you a couple of miles away from the site - how did you even get so far?" She doesn't wait for an explanation, and he doesn't ask how she knew where to find him then. "Brought you back here, warmed you up. I thought about calling a doctor, but…”

She sensibly trails off, and Jon makes a face. “Right.” There are some health related questions he'd rather not discuss with a professional.

“I wanted to make some tea, since it's supposed to help,” Basira continues, “but there's something wrong with the kettle. Are you alright staying there alone while I go ask for a replacement?”

_Alone_. Jon shivers at the word, remembering the loneliness pressing on him in the dark, the feeling of being so utterly lost he'd never be found again - but he quickly snaps out of it, and nods.

“Sure. Don't let me keep you.”

She gives him a last inquisitive look, then gets up. Jon closes his eyes, exhaustion starting to blur the edges of his vision; he listens as she moves around, unplugging the kettle and grabbing her keycard.

Then the door closes behind her, and Jon is left on his own.

If he pays attention, he can hear the muffled wind outside, as well as the distant sound of traffic. There's animation in the building, in the city around him, and he clings to it like a lifeline. The thoughts under his skull, usually skittering ceaselessly like so many hyperactive rodents, are mercifully sluggish and muted by his exhaustion.

The faint background noise of life around him must have lulled him back to sleep at some point, because he doesn't realize there's someone else in the room until he opens his eyes back up. His breath catches in his throat, then he lets out a disbelieving chuckle.

“Hey,” he rasps. “Fancy seeing you there.”

Martin scowls disapprovingly. “This isn't funny.”

“Agree to disagree.” Jon struggles to prop himself up, and Martin takes an anxious step forward before stopping short. There's a steaming mug in his hands, and the image it produces is so _normal_ that for a second Jon wonders if he's dreaming.

Well. Figment of his imagination or not, Jon's got some words for the man. "You went out of your way to make sure you wouldn't cross my path at the Institute, and you come on your own while I'm in Norway? Excuse me, but it is a little funny."

Martin sighs. He looks very tired.

"Jon, you almost died."

Jon shrugs noncommittally. "Yes, well. Thank your boss for that."

"If Peter had really tried to kill you, you wouldn't be here," Martin says. "This was just - a warning."

There's a air of resigned confidence to him that makes Jon bristle. Martin has told him he knew what he was doing by getting involved with Peter Lukas, but he seems to have a hard time keeping up - too many preoccupations, too many risks and end goals balanced precariously on his shoulders. Jon knows the feeling only too well.

"Why are you here, Martin?" Jon is curious, and feels the slightest hint of compulsion twine with the words as they leave his mouth.

"I was worried," Martin says simply.

The answer sounds so genuine it makes Jon's chest hurt - unless it's another side-effect of the hypothermia. He stops fighting against gravity, falling back into the pillows. Martin shuffles nervously on his feet (Jon is incommensurately glad to see some things never change) then quickly closes the distance between them, sitting where Basira had sat on the edge of the bed. He hands his mug to Jon, who stares at it blankly.

"It's just tea, Jon," Martin says patiently. "Peter hasn't sent me here to finish the job, if that's what you're worried about."

His tone is tentatively lighthearted, and Jon allows himself to respond in kind. "I was not, but now that you mention it -"

Martin smiles then, the corner of his mouth lifting as if he can't help it; Jon's mouth goes a bit dry.

"Just drink it. Please," Martin encourages him.

Jon takes the mug, and the heat coming off of it comfortingly stings the tip of his fingers. He brings it close to his nose, inhales; it smells of ginger and lemon.

"It's what you used to make when you caught a cold," he says without thinking.

From the corner of his eyes, he can see Martin self-consciously run a hand through his hair. "I know hypothermia is a bit worse than a cold, but -"

Jon interrupts him: "It's perfect. I- thank you."

Martin murmurs "you're welcome," and sits quietly as Jon sips at the beverage. It burns down his throat and spreads a pleasant warmth through his body, chasing the remnants of the frost that has almost claimed him.  Neither of them speaks up - and the silence is a bit awkward, sure, but it's also comfortable in a way none of their encounters have been in a long time. Jon surreptitiously observes Martin over the rim of the mug; now that he's got the occasion to study him, Jon can see that most of what he mistook for exhaustion was just a patina of deep concern. Now that he's been given the opportunity to help, Martin seems more peaceful, despite what his fingers picking at his sleeves might suggest.

Finally, Jon drains the last of the concoction and sets the mug on the side table. Martin glances at him and offers him another timid smile, before making a move to get up.

Jon's hand shoots up on his own accord. "Please, wait."

Martin freezes - looks down on Jon's fingers wrapped around his wrist, then to Jon's face. His own face does this weird thing it does when he wants to say no without being able to, mouth twisted and eyes shifty.

"I can't stay," he says, and it sounds like the words take a physical toll on him.

Jon says: "I know." Still, he doesn't release him. There are many things he wants to say - many questions and pleas, right on the tip of his tongue. He swallows them, takes a fortifying breath. His fingers slip from Martin's wrist to his hand, and he squeezes it briefly.

"Please come back," he says. _Come back to me._

Martin doesn't answer, but he turns his hand, holding Jon's in his for a second before letting go.

Jon closes his eyes to stop himself from saying something he will regret. When he opens them again, Martin is gone.

* * *

Jon is asleep when Basira comes back. The empty mug on the bedside table is still warm to the touch.


End file.
